


where i can't follow

by lightfighter08



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, F/F, time traveler aka human disaster clarke griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightfighter08/pseuds/lightfighter08
Summary: You never really get used to time-travel. Uncontrollable, random, and forcing one to relive moments that would better off be left in the past. Clarke knows this firsthand, and could really do without the inconvenience, stress, and all-too-frequent embarrassment.There is one silver lining, though. And that's Lexa, the one constant in Clarke's life, enough to make the rest possible to bear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Here's a little one-shot that's been occupying my mind for the last few days. 
> 
> Confession: I've written this AU for other fandoms, but I just really love it, okay? Everyone has a guilty pleasure AU, and, well, this is mine. I blame Audrey Niffenegger for writing such a good book. 
> 
> Also, for anyone who cares, I promise I haven't forgotten fywtm! The next chapter is in the works, but I had to get this out of my head and shake off a few cobwebs in the process. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Lexa is 26, Clarke is 25**

Lexa presses Clarke gently into the bed, enjoying the feel of the blonde beneath her. She loves moments like these, moments that often feel too fleeting and, with her hours at the firm growing increasingly crazy, far in between; Clarke, from the way her nails are digging into Lexa’s shoulder blades, clearly feels the same. Leaning down, Lexa presses kisses down Clarke’s jaw.

Clarke gasps. “Lexa…I…”

“Shh,” Lexa replies, reaching down to slide a hand under Clarke’s shirt.

“No…I’m…I’m gonna…”

And then she’s gone. Lexa falls forward, face planting rather ungracefully as the body that had been under hers is simply just…not there anymore. The only trace that there _had_ been someone there is Clarke’s well-loved oversized AC/DC shirt.

Lexa slumps there, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, as if in the hope that Clarke will be there when she opens them again. But Clarke isn’t, and after a moment Lexa turns to lay on her back with a disgruntled grunt, taking Clarke’s shirt with her.

She knows she should be used to it, after all this time. And she _is_ , sort of. The shock of it has worn off. But the waiting…the waiting and the helplessness that comes with it never gets much easier. Lexa has nearly preternatural calm when the situation calls for it, can weather just about any crisis with nary a blink, but that determined tranquility never seems to last when it comes to Clarke.

They often joke that of the two of them, Lexa would have been the better choice for the odd condition, always prepared and rarely ruffled, but in some ways it’s oddly fitting that it’s Clarke who life has made the genetic lottery winner. Clarke, who by self-admission is a hot mess more often than not, and who is content to live in a state of “organized” chaos – chaos that has only somewhat stabilized since she and Lexa moved in together. She can hardly keep her shit together as a rule, so it maybe it isn’t surprising that she can’t keep herself bound to a single time period, either.

Where’s Clarke now, Lexa wonders? _When_ is she?

After a moment of pondering, she sighs, resigned to the wait. In this realm of Clarke’s life, Lexa is utterly helpless, unknowing of how long Clarke’s trip away will be and powerless to affect it in any way. So…if she has to wait, she may as well get comfortable. 

She pulls up the comforter, maybe just a tad petulantly, before sitting up and grabbing _The Bell Jar_ off the nightstand. Clarke’s shirt stays close at hand. 

 

**

**Lexa is 15, Clarke is 25**

Clarke sits up with a scowl, more than a little pissed off. She’d been in the middle of something, dammit! And by something, she means Lexa. Specifically, Lexa’s fingers. She lets out a resentful groan. Lexa’s been so busy at the firm, and this was the first time they’ve had together in _weeks_.

Fucking time-travel.

As always, she’s in the closet. As in, a literal closet. This had been somewhat amusing the first time, the universe proving its twisted sense of humor is alive and well, but considering she was about to sleep with her girlfriend after what feels like several ice ages, it is decidedly less so this time around.

She attempts to struggle to her feet, set on determining just _when_ exactly she is – she knows, after all, where she is just fine – and makes the mistake of grabbing onto what feels like a jacket hanging above her. Naturally, this causes a minor avalanche of excessively plaid clothing and what feels like shoe boxes to rain down upon her, and Clarke sits down hard, covering her head with an outraged squawk as she is assaulted by plastic hangers.

Apparently her inability to function, and the resulting commotion, has finally drawn attention from the world beyond the closet and she hears footsteps approaching. Clarke freezes, but short of covering herself in the various leather articles around her and pushing herself back half a foot there’s not much she can do.

Before she can do even that, though, the closer door jerks open a few inches and she’s treated to the sight of an unaccountably-stressed teenaged Lexa, a bit shorter than Clarke’s version and face, adorably, a bit rounder as well. Her eyes are the same, though, and right now she’s _definitely_ glaring at Clarke.

Clarke looks around, and winces at the disaster zone around her, not to mention the semi-debauched sight she must make at its epicenter. She waves a sheepish hand. “Hey, Lex.”

“Clarke!” Lexa hisses. “This is _really_ not a good time.”

Clarke draws herself up, mildly offended, and tries to gather her tattered dignity around her despite the fact that she’s pretty sure there’s a hanger in her hair. “Well excuse me, let me just have a quick chat with my freakish time-travel abilities and see if we can arrange a schedule that’s more _feasible_ for you—”

But Lexa is already raising her hands placatingly, trying to shush Clarke even as she casts a nervous glance behind her.  “Shh, alright, alright, I’m sorry, but I really, really need you to be _quiet_. How long are you going to be here?”

“You know I don’t have the answer to that, Lexa, I—“ Clarke’s mouth snaps shut, and she looks suspiciously at Lexa. “Wait a minute. Do you…do you have a _girl_ here?” She points a finger at Lexa accusingly, breaking into shocked and impressed laughter as Lexa flushes, caught. “You do! Oh my god, you so do. Lexa Woods, you _cad_.”

Lexa is shushing her again, looking frantic, though her lingering blush rather lessens the effect. “Okay, yes, alright? Yes. Which is why I need you to just, just stay here and please not say anything, this is the first time Cos—“

She presses her lips together, looking as if she desperately wishes to take the words back, but it’s too late. Clarke sits up straight, teasing all but forgotten. “Wait. _Costia_?”

Lexa sighs, then nods.

After a moment, Clarke forces a smile, and nods overly-enthusiastically. “Great! That’s great. What are you doing wasting time with me, get out there, Woods! Go!”

Lexa’s brows furrow at Clarke’s sudden change of tone, but after another glance behind her opts not to question it. “Okay, thanks. You’ll stay here?”

Clarke rolls her eyes but nods.

“Great. And…um…” Lexa’s eyes dip down for a second as if of their own accord, and she flushes all over again. “Could you maybe put some clothes on?”

Clarke looks down to realize that, for all of the scattered clothing around her, she’s still _very_ naked. Before she can think of a comeback, though, witty or otherwise, Lexa is gone, flashing her a smile before firmly shutting the closet door.

Clarke can hear Lexa’s footsteps receding, and in response to a muffled voice that, Clarke realizes with a sick jolt, must surely be Costia’s, giving a weak excuse about shoe boxes falling in the closet. Clarke snorts. _Right_.

After a minute, having located and blindly pulled on a t-shirt – it’s not exactly the first time Lexa has seen her without clothes on, much to Lexa’s chagrin, and, though this is far from the most awkward arrivals she’s had into Lexa’s bedroom (the most memorable visit remaining her very first time meeting Lexa, last year for her and years ago for the other girl) she does try to be respectful of the other girl’s wishes – she sighs and sits back. Her smile fades, all mirth draining away, as she rests her head against the wall of the closet and tries very hard to not think about the fact that, just a few feet and a flimsy door away, a younger version of her girlfriend is…is… _alone_ with her first love, the very same love who, if Clarke is right in her guess of the timeline, will die in less than a year.

Jesus.

Laughter leaks in from the room, and she flinches, choking on a surge of helplessness and self-loathing. Her rules for time-travel are iron-clad and absolutely unbreakable, for reasons she’s learned through painful experience. And chief among them: never tell anyone you’re visiting _anything_ about their future, good or bad. Events can’t be changed, merely visited, and Clarke sees no reason to saddle her loves ones – for she _only_ visits her loved ones – with such burdens, especially when there is nothing they can do about them.

She bears it, so they don’t have to.

More laughter filters in, and she shudders again, but this time not in revulsion; the familiar wave of dizziness and loss of strength is washing over her, and Clarke knows she won’t be around for much longer. She dimly registers the sound of the bedroom door opening, and Lexa and Costia chatting lightly as Lexa walks her to her car.

She’s almost gone when Lexa returns, the girl panting as if she sprinted back. “Sorry about that, you can come—” She stops short, looking almost comically crestfallen at the sight of Clarke. “Oh, you’re leaving?”

Clarke looks down at her forearm, visibly transparent in the light, and back at Lexa, the answer clear. Lexa slumps. “Right. Well…see you soon?”

Clarke manages a smile, a small shrug. “See you later…or earlier.”

Lexa rolls her eyes – the time-travel jokes are endless – though she can’t hide her smile. “You bet.”

Clarke is saved from having to think of something to say about the elephant in the room, also known as Costia, as the dizziness suddenly intensifies. The last thing she sees is Lexa, watching her anxiously, and, as she feels herself slip away, is selfishly relieved. Good. She wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.  

 

**

**Lexa is 11, Clarke is 24**

Clarke sits up in a pile of something…soft, thoroughly disoriented, and more than a little nauseous. It’s dark. As in, pitch black, not she’s-outside-at-night dark. She groans. She knows she shouldn’t have drank so much – alcohol and time-travel do _not_ mix – but it’s Raven’s birthday, and they’re a few hours into the party Anya’s throwing for her girlfriend at her apartment.

She’d just been starting to get a good buzz on, courtesy the second round of shots Raven passed around, and next thing she knew she was feeling that telltale odd dizziness, separate entirely from the effects of the tequila. She’d barely been able to put down the shot glass and stumble into the hallway, and next she knows, she’s…here. Wherever _here_ is. She would’ve been more panicked about being transported into an unknown place, with neither clothes or a single dime on her was she a normal, unique condition-free sort of person, but as it is dealing with being dropped into mystery locales without a stitch on is par for the course. She’s a time-traveler, and she’s learned very well what she has to do to make it out of this little time-hopping adventure (relatively) unscathed.

First order of business: secure clothing. Not only is wandering around society in your birthday suit frowned upon, it also draws lots and lots of unwanted attention. Who knew?

Clarke stands experimentally and only when her head touches hanging cloth does it register that she is, in fact, in a closet. (Why a closet? Well, her condition would probably reply with why _not_ a closet? She’s appeared in far more random and occasionally inopportune spots before, not limited to bathtubs, open fields, parking garages, and, her personal favorite, the classic busy sidewalk – so she’ll take a private, unoccupied closet if it’s an option.) The irony is not lost on her, and she rolls her eyes before grabbing at random to see if anything will fit her (time-travel also quickly rids one of one’s aversion to petty theft, lock picking, and the occasional hotwiring as needed). It is on her third far-too-small shirt that it begins to dawn on her that she is, more likely than not, in the closet of someone far smaller than herself, in size and, more importantly, in age. That is, a child’s closet, likely connecting to a child’s _bedroom_.

Oh, fuck. This is bad. This is very bad.

There are many ways to play off appearing in an adult’s bedroom, _naked_ , ranging from the savory to the rather less so, and still enabling a quick escape. Those options narrow dramatically when it comes to children, for obvious reasons, and Clarke allows herself a few muttered curses; sneaking out of an unknown child’s bedroom at who knows what hour of the day (or _year_ ) was pretty low on her list for today.

After a moment of this, she makes herself focus. Sheer panic has never been her ally, and it won’t be today, either. First, she locates, tucked into the far corner of the closet, an oversized rain jacket, just big enough that she can zip it up a bit and hopefully not get arrested for public indecency in her first minute on the street (now, it’ll just take two or three). Next, she inspects her (limited) surroundings, to see if she can glean anything before venturing out further. It’s dark, of course, but at this point her eyes have adjusted just enough that she can make out the vague outlines of the hanging clothes, and maybe she’ll come across something obvious that’ll help determine the gender of the kid that could be lying beyond. Then again, there’s no light coming from under the closet door, so maybe the kid’s asleep! Or even better, not home at all. Oh god, please let the kid not be there, please let her be able to slip out undetected. She quickly riffles through the clothes, trying hard not to feel creepy, but there is a conspicuous lack of either frilly dresses _or_ suits, or whatever else would give her a hint, and she gives it up.

Finally, after a small internal pep talk – she’s been drawing this out, and it’s time to get out of here – Clarke reaches out and gingerly clasps the door knob, turning it slowly, and then, holding her breath, opens the door a crack – and promptly lets out a sigh of relief. The room is dark, and, at least from her limited view, appears unoccupied.

Thank god.

She opens it a bit wider, just enough to slip out. A quick scan of the room, dimly illuminated by a half shuttered window, doesn’t give much insight: a desk, stuffed bookshelves, neatly made bed with neutral sheets and candles on the nightstand. There’s nothing particular to firmly suggest who lives here, boy or girl, or their age, but as there is indeed no one here to offer further details, Clarke isn’t going to stick around and figure it out.

She’s turning to the window, intending to see if she’s on the first floor and can maybe sneak out that way, when the room floods with light. Her eyes squeeze shut as they protest against the sudden brightness, tearing and struggling to adjust, and in the same instant, as her mind is still catching up, she’s swept from her feet by a sudden blow above her ankles, and lands in an ungraceful heap on the carpet.

Now thoroughly discombobulated – not to mention freaked _out_ – Clarke forces her eyes open to see, to her utter amazement, a girl. A girl in slightly adorable cat-decorated pajamas, with slightly bushy brown hair and sharp green eyes, eyes that are currently blazing. Also of note is the lacrosse stick the girl is menacingly wielding in both hands.

She feels her eyes widen. Of all the ways she thought she would first meet Lexa while time-traveling, getting jumped by an angry ten year old version of her girlfriend, and then getting the shit beat out of her by said miniature girlfriend’s lacrosse stick, did _not_ count among them.

(And there was never any question that this is Lexa. She’s much younger, of course, but her eyes and fierceness are unchanged. Frankly, if Clarke wasn’t currently scared for her life, she’d be cooing over this pint-sized version.)

“Who are you?!”

Oh, right. Speaking of angry ten year olds. Clarke makes herself focus, suppressing the urge to goggle at mini-Lexa all over again as she slowly raises her hands in surrender. “Hey. Hey. Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Lexa just looks at her, a brow raising slightly, and Clarke winces. _She’s_ the one currently on her back, in nothing but a raincoat and under threat of being attacked by sports equipment. “Okay, good point. But…just, take it easy, okay? I’m on my way out.”

Lexa is unmoved by this entreaty, just glaring at her and shaking her lacrosse stick threateningly (and okay, Clarke is _definitely_ going to have a talk with her Lexa about this). “No kidding! Now answer my question! And why were you in my _closet_?”

Clarke winces. It’s a fair question. Unfortunately, it’s also one that’s hard to answer, and even harder to believe. She bites her lip, uncertain. Lexa knows about her condition, has known about it for years, if her passing comments are any indication. So she must have told her at some point. But when…? Would Lexa at this age even believe her? Ah, the never ending confusion of time-travel.  

“Um…because I…needed…some clothes?” She immediately wants to smack herself. Not her best line by far; Lexa has thrown her usually well-honed bullshitting abilities for a loop.

Lexa makes to raise the lacrosse stick, and Clarke hastily holds out her hands. Goddamn, little Lexa is _feisty_. Or maybe warlike is the better word. “Okay, okay! I’ll explain! Just put that thing down!”

Lexa all but bares her teeth. “Talk.”

Clarke sighs. “Alright. My name’s Clarke. I really did need some clothes, but that’s not how or why I ended up in your closet.” She hesitates. Well, here goes nothing. Kids are more open to believing things, right?  “I…have a power. Sort of. I kind of…appear places. Randomly. Sometimes in the past, sometimes in the future. And then, um, after a while, I disappear. Return to my time.”

Lexa stares at her. Clarke returns her gaze hopefully. This continues for a good ten seconds. Finally, Lexa says, her voice flat, “Are you trying to say that you’re a… _time-traveler_?”

“Um…yes?”

Lexa peers at her, seeming to take in her generally suspect appearance for the first time. Her eyes widen, as if in sudden understanding. “Wait. Are you…are you on drugs? We just did D.A.R.E. at my school. You know they’re bad for you, right? You’ll get addicted and stuff.”

Clarke has to swallow down the sudden, highly inappropriate urge to laugh. It’s about time the girl in front of her acts her age, and yet is still so, so Lexa. “I…no, Lexa, I’m not on _drugs_.” (She wisely chooses to avoid mentioning her ongoing buzz; it’s mostly evaporated in the face of the interrogation she’s currently facing, anyway.) “I know it’s difficult to…” She trails off at the growing suspicion and, yes, a tiny bit of fear on Lexa’s face. “What?”

“How do you know my _name_?”

Oh, shit. Dammit, she’s not sober enough for this. She’s been attempting to avoid it, not wanting to cross _that_ bridge just yet, but looks she doesn’t have a choice. “Because I know you! In the future. We’re…friends.” Any further details on the exact nature of their relationship are _really_ not necessary at the current moment.

Clarke’s explanation does little to soothe Lexa’s growing suspicion; if anything, it aggravates it. “Stop with that time-traveling junk! That’s not real!”

“I know it sounds crazy, Lex—”

“And stop saying my name!”

Clarke, seeing Lexa’s rising panic, decides it’s time to take decisive action. Raising herself on her elbows, uncaring of the lacrosse stick, she says, her voice firm, “Your name is Lexa Agnes Woods, Agnes for your grandmother. Your mom passed away when you were three, and your dad, Gustus, is a master sergeant in the army. He’s deployed overseas a lot, and your godmother, Indra, takes care of you when he’s gone. You love school, and lacrosse, and reading. Your favorites are the _Nancy Drew_ and _Harry Potter_ series. You’re still deciding what you want to be when you grow up, but right now it’s a tie between astronaut, lawyer, or soldier like your dad. And…” She can’t help but smile as she thinks back to everything Lexa’s ever told her about her childhood. “You think your teacher, Miss Anderson, is really pretty.”

She pauses there, not wanting to completely freak out the kid in front of her, and waits to see what happens next. Lexa, for her part, had been lowering the lacrosse stick as Clarke spoke, her eyes growing wider and wider as the list of facts grew. They look at each other, until finally Lexa says, “I had her last year. I’m in sixth grade now.”

Clarke quickly does the math. “So you’re eleven?”

Lexa gives a hesitant nod, and Clarke gives herself a mental pat on the back. She’d been pretty close.

“How…how do you know all that?” Lexa finally asks.

Clarke shrugs, feeling tired. “You told me. A while from now.”

“In the future?”

Clarke nods.

Lexa stares at her, and this time Clarke thinks she might’ve gotten through a little. “Woah.”

Clarke feels a wry smile cross her face. “No kidding.”

After a moment, Lexa lowers the lacrosse stick completely, to Clarke’s relief, and takes a step back. Clarke takes a chance and sits up, albeit slowly, and when Lexa doesn’t react, pulls down the jacket a little, feeling more than a little exposed.

Lexa sits on the edge of her bed, staring still at Clarke, though it’s less in suspicion now and more in intrigue.

Clarke shifts uncomfortably. “Um, what?”

“Well…it’s just…”

Clarke’s eyes narrow. She’d know that tone anywhere. Lexa’s doing her lawyer thing. Clarke should’ve known it’s been instinctive since birth. “What.”

“Most of that stuff you could’ve learned from the internet, or from stalking me,” Lexa says, mindless of Clarke’s sputtering.

Clarke groans. “Lexa! I’m not stalking you. Seriously.”

Lexa shrugs. “I’m just saying. None of that stuff _really_ proves you’re a time-traveler.”

Clarke stares at her. Jesus Christ, this kid… “So what are you getting at, exactly?”

Lexa crosses her arms. “Well, if you’re a time-traveler…prove it.”

“Pardon?”

“Well, you said you’ll disappear and go back to your time, right? So…prove it.”

“It’s not—“ Clarke grinds her teeth. “I can’t really control it. So I can’t just _prove_ it on command.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows, looking so like her present self that Clarke is getting whiplash. “Then how is it a power?”

Clarke sighs. “It’s more of a condition.”

“Uh huh.” Lexa doesn’t look too sympathetic. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. If you’re telling the truth, you’ll go eventually.”

“I will, ‘cause I _am_.” Clarke can’t believe she’s getting lawyered by a ten— sorry, _eleven_ year old. Future girlfriend or not.

“So…” Lexa says after a minute. “Why are you visiting _me_ , anyway?”

Clarke clears her throat. This is dangerous territory they’re nearing. “Well, like I said. I know you, in the future. We’re, uh, friends. And when I travel I often see people I’m friends with.”

“Like anyone? Any friend you’ve ever had?”

“Uh…no, not really. Just, um, people who I’ve known for a while.” This is not totally a lie. She’s visited Raven a few times, and Bellamy once. “You know, people I care about.”

She regrets the words as soon as she says them; Lexa’s eyes widen comically. “Wait, care about?”

Clarke’s never been so glad to feel the dizziness wash over her, and from the intensity of it, it seems her going won’t be a drawn out affair. She slumps back against the wall, waving down Lexa’s worry when the girl straightens. “Looks like you’ll get your proof sooner than we thought.”

“What’s happening?!” Lexa sounds both alarmed and scared.

“Don’t worry. I’m going.”

Lexa springs to her feet, taking a few steps towards Clarke. “You’re— you’re— you’re getting _see-through_!”

Clarke glances down at her bare legs. “That happens, yeah.”

Lexa appears to be having difficulty with this. Clarke knows the feeling. “Clarke! You’re a time-traveler!”

Clarke feels her lips lift. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“But—“ Lexa bites her lip. “Will I see you again?”

Clarke chuckles. “You’ll get sick of me. Promise.”

Lexa nods hesitantly, then squares her shoulders, trying to be brave. “Okay. Bye, Clarke.” Then, sounding as if she’s quoting someone, adds, “May we meet again.”

Clarke smiles, gives her a wave, her hand almost transparent. “See you around, Lex.”

 

**

**Lexa is 16, Clarke is 27**

Clarke sits up with a sigh. Lexa’s closet has, over the years, been organized somewhat to allow for the occasional spontaneous appearance of a time-traveling human, but it’s still, you know, a closet, and Clarke is never too keen on staying longer than she has to. She listens at the door, but all is quiet beyond; to be fair, there’s never much of anything that can be classified as a “ruckus” going on at Lexa’s house, with her father often gone and Lexa not exactly a partier.

She collects the sweatpants and t-shirt hanging from the hook on the door and slips them on; after a few deeply awkward mishaps, in which Clarke had the living shit scared out of her and Lexa just about passed out, Lexa is always _certain_ to leave clothes easily accessible, for her sanity just as much as Clarke’s comfort, Clarke is sure. Well, Clarke’ll take it either way.

She thankfully slips out of the cramped space – thank god she’s never been prone to claustrophobia – and stops short. Lexa’s bedroom, usually pristinely clean – a combination of the weekly housekeeper and Lexa’s own mildly obsessive neatness – is anything but. There are clothes everywhere, on the floor and piled on the desk chair and the foot of the bed; Lexa’s lacrosse gear, usually carefully maintained and cared for, is scattered across the floor as well, her sports duffel half emptied and on its side. Most telling, though, are the few picture frames on the desk, all turned face down.

Clarke sighs. So she’s arrived in this time period, then. She doesn’t even have to ask the unmoving lump that is Lexa, curled on her side in the center of the bed, to confirm; Costia’s death, coming less than a year after her diagnosis and horribly speedy illness, has dealt Lexa a terrible blow and left a gaping hole in her life. Clarke has been around at various points in the grim process, and it’s never gotten easier; seeing Lexa like this kills her, and inevitably, when she returns to her own time, compels her to find her Lexa and hug her for a (very) long time.

“Hey, Lex.”

The lump on the bed stirs a little, but no response is incoming. Clarke approaches slowly, not wanting to disturb Lexa if she’s actually sleeping, but when she gets to the side of the bed, sees that her eyes are open, staring vacantly into space. Clarke frowns. So it’s a bad day, then. She sees Lexa’s phone on the nightstand, and discreetly checks the date, confirming her suspicions. It’s been three weeks since Costia’s passing. Lexa won’t start to really heal for at least half a month.

Clarke sighs again. It’s in this time of Lexa’s life that she wishes most she could be in Lexa’s life for real, as a consistent friend and shoulder to lean on, not just a spontaneously visiting…friend/confidante/mentor…person. But she’s not due to meet Lexa for a few years, yet, and besides, she knows the Clarke out there isn’t in the best state to take care of anyone anyway, hardly taking care of herself as she struggles deep in her own grieving and turmoil after the loss of her dad. The middle-teen years were hard on them both.

Well, she’ll do what she can for Lexa, while she’s here. Sometimes just the presence of someone who cares can be a comfort. She hopes.

She sits on the edge of the bed. “Lexa.”

Lexa blinks, finally looking at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed, with deep shadows under them; she hasn’t been sleeping. Or at least, not well. “Hi, Clarke.” She blinks some more, seeming to focus. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come.”

“No worries. “ Clarke leans in a bit, trying to conceal her worry. “How are you feeling?”

Lexa looks down, shrugging, and Clarke’s heart sinks. “Bad day?”

Another shrug. Clarke studies her, feeling torn. She wants to be there for Lexa, but is always conscious of their age difference – she’s always a fair bit older – and never wants to make the girl feel uncomfortable, or somehow obligated. But Lexa, past and present, is notoriously selfless; she’ll never say what she wants if she thinks it’ll put someone out. Clarke will have to coax it out of her.  

“Is anyone home?”

“Um…I don’t think so,” Lexa replies, her voice subdued. “Indra left a little while ago.”

“Okay. Are you hungry? Do you want anything to eat?”

Lexa grimaces. “No, thanks.”

Clarke doesn’t push it. She can see how wan Lexa is, her cheekbones worryingly apparent, but she doesn’t want to force the girl to eat; she knows Indra will handle that upon her return. “Alright. Just try to eat something later, okay?”

Lexa moves, sort of, and Clarke decides to take it as a nod. She sighs, standing up, and is….not pleased, exactly, but is relieved when Lexa looks up in some alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I was gonna give you some space, let you rest some more.”

“No!” Lexa bites her lip. “No. I…I want you to…” She trails off, looking frustrated.

“Do you want me to stay?” Clarke asks, her voice gentle.

A relieved nod. Clarke smiles. “I think I can arrange that.” She steps back to the bed, raising an eyebrow. “Got some space in there?”

“Oh! Uh, yes.” Lexa quickly scoots over, and Clarke joins her, sitting down and stretching her legs out over the covers. From this closer vantage point, she can see the lines of tiredness and grief on Lexa’s face, and her heart hurts all over again. Everyone goes through this at least once in their lives, but at such a young age… “How are you? Really.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I miss her so much, Clarke.”

“I know, Lex.”

“I— I can’t sleep. I keep seeing her in my dreams, from before she was sick and— and after, and I can’t—” Her voice breaks, and she stops short, her eyes squeezing shut.

Clarke reaches out, rubs a soothing hand over Lexa’s back. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, it’s just— her parents, Clarke.” Lexa lets out a shaky breath. “They were standing there at the funeral, and you should’ve seen them, I couldn’t face them, I _couldn’t_ —” She stops again, this time on a sob, and presses a hand to her mouth, shaking her head.

Clarke is scooting down before she finishes, pressing her hand to Lexa’s cheek. “Lexa, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. No one is blaming you for anything, not her parents or anyone else.”

Lexa takes a few shuddering breaths before opening her eyes. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“There is no right way. Just take it a day at a time. It’s okay to miss her, Lexa. It’s okay to grieve.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I wish you’d told me.”

Clarke doesn’t reply, though a million replies crowd her head. She opens her mouth, closes it. Lexa is distraught, and Clarke doesn’t want to hurt her more. Finally, she settles for: “Do you really? Would the knowledge have helped?”

Lexa studies her for a moment, her lip trembling, before closing her eyes, a few tears running down her face and soaking into the sheets. “No. No. But I just—” She swallows. “It’s so unfair.”

Clarke blinks back her own tears. “I know, Lexa.” And she really, truly, does. She doesn’t think anyone else can understand just how much pain her condition can bring.

They’re silent for some time. Finally, Lexa speaks. “Will you stay with me?”

“For as long as you want.” They both know that means as long as her trip will last, but the sentiment is understood.

Lexa sighs, scooting closer. Clarke runs a hand through her tangled hair. Neither say anything more; there’s nothing more to say.

They stay like that until Lexa’s breath even out, and she finally relaxes into a real sleep. Clarke doesn’t move, continuing to soothe Lexa however she can. She’ll stay for as long as she can.

 

**

**Lexa is 18, Clarke is 24**

“I don’t understand the point of this show.”

“Shh.”

“No, really. Why would anyone subject themselves to this? Especially for such a mediocre man? Who is always named Brad or Chad or Tad and has no discernible personality?”

Clarke, without looking up from the laptop, extends a hand and presses it over Lexa’s mouth. “Lexa. Do I watch your squid documentaries? No matter how long or weird?”

A pause, then a muffled, resigned “mm-hmm” comes from Lexa, and Clarke pulls away. “But—”

This time Clarke goes so far as to hit pause and rolls onto her side to look at Lexa head on. “Oh, no you don’t. We have a deal. I watch your nerdy aquatic documentaries, and you turn your brain off and watch my trashy, patriarchal, inane reality TV.”

Lexa opens her mouth, but Clarke heads her off. “ _Even_ The Bachelor.”

They squint at each other for a second, until Lexa heaves a sigh and nods. “Fine. But let the record show that I think taking wedding photos as a first date activity is incredibly inappropriate. Also deeply weird.”

Clarke snorts. “Duly noted.”

They lapse into silence for the rest of the episode, save for Clarke’s laughter and the occasional scoff or groan of disbelief from Lexa when something particularly egregious happens.

When the credits roll, Lexa rolls onto her back with a sigh of relief. “Thank god. Honestly, Clarke. I’d rather watch Real Housewives.”

Clarke laughs, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor next to the twin bed they’re currently squeezed on in Lexa’s dorm. “Wow. That’s saying something.” She join Lexa on her back, and the two stare up at the speckled ceiling tiles. “I haven’t watched this season in years, though. Not since I was in col—”

She stops short, and though Lexa rolls her eyes she doesn’t comment. Clarke is notoriously closemouthed about her past, or, for that matter, her future; frankly any time that isn’t the present is off-limits. Lexa knows about Clarke’s rules, and, after losing Costia and having some years to process it, can grudgingly see the sense in them, but that doesn’t make them any less tiresome. She feels like she only knows Clarke in parts and flashes, despite having known her since she was eleven. She knows, for instance, that Clarke loves art, and junk food, and, unfortunately, junk television, and also deeply personal things like how the death of her father affected Clarke or how strained relations are with her mother, but is entirely ignorant when it comes to banal details like what Clarke does for a living or where she lives. 

It’s very disconcerting.

This is entirely by design, of course – Clarke is always going on about events happening naturally, in their natural time, and _definitely_ without Lexa trying to make them happen – but it’s gotten harder and harder as the years go by, and without any sign of the Clarke from _her_ timeline making an appearance.

Especially since Lexa’s massive crush on Clarke shows no sign of fading. The opposite, in fact. Which is highly inconvenient. She _would_ like a girl who drops in and out of her life with no warning, occasionally tipsy, and since, _oh yeah_ , she’s a time-traveler, Lexa has no idea how old Clarke really is – she thinks, from remarks Clarke has made over the years, that they’re about the same age, but she can’t be _certain_.

Match made in heaven, clearly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Lexa blinks, realizing she’s been staring disconsolately at the ceiling as her thoughts turn endlessly. She looks at Clarke, hoping her smile isn’t too forced. “Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just exams coming up.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Lex. I’ve made several speeches about how envious I am of your freaky practically-photographic memory. You’ll be fine. And anyway, we both know that’s not what was making you glare at the ceiling like it owes you money.”

Lexa laughs at that, then, at Clarke’s insistent look, lets out a breath. “It’s just…Clarke. It’s been so long. Your visits have been more and more infrequent, and I, I just— when will I meet you?”

“Lexa…”

Lexa looks back up at the ceiling, unable to bear Clarke’s look of sad sympathy. “I know you can’t tell me. I know you _won’t_ tell me, but—”

Clarke takes her hand, gripping it fiercely. “I wish I could, honestly, but I need you to believe me when I say it’s better this way. It’ll happen in its own natural time—”

Lexa laughs, hearing the unpleasant edge of bitterness but unable to stop it. “That’s what you always say.”

“And I mean it!” Clarke looks at her intently, as if the force of her gaze could prove her sincerity. After a moment, she sighs, softening. “Look…I get it, okay? I…miss you too.”

Lexa looks at her quizzically. “I haven’t even met you yet. Like, naturally. The Clarke running around out there, doing god knows what, doesn’t even know me.”

Clarke returns her gaze soulfully. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss you. Deep down.”

They stare at each other for a second, before Clarke, whose lips have started twitching, gives in, cracking up, Lexa joining in after rolling her eyes. “God, you’re such a sap.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Clarke says, smiling a little. “But Lexa, I don’t want you to spend your life waiting for me. You’re in college now, on your own, meeting new people. Don’t let me hold you back. I— I don’t want your life to be different because of me.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Clarke…it already is. It’s been different since I was eleven. You changed it. You changed _me_.”

Clarke looks down, not disputing the point. “I know that. But, well— this brings up something else I wanted to mention—”

Lexa looks at her suspiciously, catching Clarke’s change of tone. “What?”

Clarke stares at her hands for a long moment. “This is going to be my last visit— for a while.”

“What do you mean…”

“I mean, after today, _now_ , I…I won’t see you. For, um.” Clarke twists her hands together. “For a few years.”

Lexa sits up straight. “What?!”

Clarke watches her anxiously. “I know it might be surprising—“

“For how many years, Clarke?” Lexa’s voice trembles very slightly.

Clarke sighs. “A few years, okay? Look, I can tell you this. The next time we meet, it’ll be you meeting _me_. The real me, from your timeline.”

Lexa registers this silently for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “I’ll miss you.”

Clarke smiles, a little tremulously. “Back atcha. But hey—“ She leans over, nudging Lexa with her shoulder. “Tell you what. Just this once, I’ll give you a hint.”

Lexa looks up from where she’s been examining her bedspread, and Clarke squeezes her hand. “I know you just started school a few weeks ago…but you’re in for a really great time here. You’re gonna make a lot of life-long friends, like—”

The sound of a key being inserted into the lock draws both of their attentions. Lexa looks at the door, then to Clarke, panicked. “My roommate! Clarke, you have to hide, she’s super scary and there’s no way to explain this!”

But her words fall on deaf ears – Clarke has slumped against the headboard, her eyes fluttering in the way they always do when she’s about to go. Lexa gapes at her. “Clarke! Are you serious?!”

Clarke smiles at her weakly. “Don’t say I don’t make things interesting.”

Lexa glares at her, torn between affection and mild infuriation, but there’s nothing that can be done. Her roommate, Anya, a serious sophomore that Lexa is in turns intimidated by and in awe of, finally succeeds in getting the door open, and strides in, only to stop short at the sight of Clarke.

“Woah. Is she, uh, okay?” Her eyes flit between Clarke and Lexa, clearly trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Anya,” Clarke says. “Always a pleasure.”

Lexa gawks, unable to understand what Clarke’s up to – unless, since there’s no way to hide what’s about to happen, she’s thrown all caution to the wind. Perfect. And also, it seems that Clarke knows Anya in the future?

While Lexa is trying to wrap her head around this, Anya is busy being weirded out. “Uhh, hi?”

Clarke just smirks at her, before looking back at Lexa, squeezing her hand to get her attention. Lexa turns to her, and, as it is obvious that she’s about to go – her skin is deathly pale, and any moment now Clarke will start doing her best impression of Casper – is struck with sudden panic and aching sadness as Clarke’s revelation from earlier rings in her head. Clarke is leaving. Going back to her own time. And Lexa won’t see her again for _years_. “Clarke, wait—”

“You’ll be fine,” Clarke interrupts, smiling gently. “Just have fun. See you soon.”

“But I’ll _miss_ you—” Lexa starts, her eyes stinging with tears.

“You’ll be fine,” Clarke repeats.

“Um,” Anya says awkwardly, “Not to interrupt, but unless I’m in serious need of getting my eyes checked out your, um, friend is getting _transparent_.”

Neither of them bother to look at her, Lexa gripping Clarke’s hand for dear life. “But what am I—”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, and her voice is definitely getting fainter. “You’ll. Be. Fine. Trust me.”

Lexa just shakes her head, feeling wetness on her cheeks. Clarke squeezes her hand again, though Lexa can barely feel the pressure this time. “And one more thing.”

Lexa raises her head. Clarke smiles. “May we meet again.”

And then she’s gone. Lexa slumps, her now-empty hand closing into a fist. Maybe she will be fine, but all she can feel right now is aching loss.

Until the sound of a throat clearing breaks the silence.

“Um,” Anya says, looking both contrite and increasingly panicked. “I’m realizing that this doesn’t appear to be the best time, but can someone please explain just what the everliving _fuck_ is going on?”

 

**

**Lexa is 24, Clarke is 23**

“Anyaaaa,” Lexa moans. “I still don’t get why _I_ have to go to this thing.”

Anya rolls her eyes, entirely unaffected. “Because I’ve been dating Raven for almost two months now, and I want you to meet her.”

“Yes, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that you’ve been hiding this girl for months, but also, may I remind you that I have my on-campus interviews starting next week? This is going to sound crazy, but I do, you know, actually _want_ a job at a law firm.”

“Yeah, still don’t get that,” Anya replies, wrinkling her nose. She heaves a sigh at Lexa’s look of outrage. “Oh my god, will you chill out? You’ve been preparing for roughly ten thousand years, you nerd. A couple of hours at a bar won’t kill you.” She casts Lexa a sideways glance. “And anyway, sorry for wanting to include you in my _life_.”

Lexa immediately looks contrite. “You know I want—” She stops short when Anya starts snickering. “Ugh, you’re the worst.”

“True,” Anya says, looking unbothered by the sentiment. “Now come on, it’s just down the block. You’ll like Raven, she’s really cool—”

She pauses as her phone lights up with a message. “Speaking of…” She quickly glances through the text. “Looks like our party just got bigger.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. One of Raven’s friends will be joining us, Raven says she’s really sweet, an art student.” Anya waggles her eyebrows. “Time to get out your A-game, Woods.”

“Ugh. Yeah, right.” 

Anya eyes her, but doesn’t push it. She knows the score. After that day in Lexa’s dorm, when Anya had several years scared off her life and Lexa saw Clarke for the last time, Lexa had had to explain. Had Anya not seen Clarke disappear before her very eyes, she might not have believed it (okay, _definitely_ not believed it), but as it was she had no choice.

It’s been six years since Lexa has seen Clarke. Sometimes she wonders if Clarke was lying, that that was the last time Lexa would see her _ever_ , and the time in her life that she shared with Clarke has already come and went; where Clarke has gone, Lexa cannot follow. But that thought makes misery rise so fast in her chest and into her throat, choking her, that she never entertains it long.

Clarke told her they would meet again. And Lexa has to believe her.

“Just…be nice, okay?” Anya is saying, adorably nervous, as they approach the bar. “I like this girl.”

Lexa shakes off her reverie, smiling. “Yeah, yeah. I just want to meet the person who can put up with you.”

They enter, and quickly locate Raven in a booth at the back, where Anya makes introductions. She’s lovely, and Lexa can immediately tell is more than a match for Anya.

After they get seated, and have made some initial conversation – Raven charming but looking somewhat stressed – Anya looks around, frowning. “Oh yeah. Wasn’t one of your friends gonna join us, or something?”

“Um, right,” Raven says, grimacing. “She is. And she was here, but had to um, step away for a moment. She should be back soon…I hope.”

They confusedly accept this answer, and get back to talking, Raven telling Lexa about her research work in the aerospace industry while Anya grabs drinks at the bar.

It’s been about twenty minutes, everyone about done with their first round, when Raven lights up suddenly, waving at someone over Anya and Lexa’s shoulders. “Hey! Over here!” She picks up her beer and drains the rest of it, seeming enormously relieved. “Thank _god_.”

“Hey guys, I am _so_ sorry—”

Lexa’s insides freeze. She knows that voice. Would know it anywhere. Has heard it for years (and also _hasn’t_ heard it for years). But it can’t be…if she’s wrong, she knows she’ll never get over it.

She takes a breath, ignoring Anya’s look of concern, and slowly turns in her seat.

Clarke.

It’s Clarke, looking an absolute goddamn mess, her hair a tangled nest with what look to be a few actual twigs in it, shirt buttoned incorrectly and one shoe untied.

Lexa’s never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

She slowly rises, drinking Clarke in, mindless of Anya’s muttered “holy shit” besides her. Clarke is young, younger than Lexa has ever seen her, and Lexa can’t look away.

Clarke, for her part, is looking a bit confused by Lexa’s stare, but after a split second pause clearly decides to brave it out, striding forwards. “Hi. I’m so sorry I’m late, I got a bit caught up.”

Lexa just stares, having forgotten entirely how to talk.

Clarke’s smile falters, but she keeps going. “Um, I’m Clarke. You must be Anya’s friend?”

This time, Lexa manages to get herself together enough to muster a nod.

“Oh. Well, nice to meet you!” Clarke holds out a hand, and Lexa, after forcibly shaking off the sudden recollection of the last time she’d seen, or held that hand, reaches out to meet it, trying hard not to react when their palms meet.

Clarke draws a surprised breath at the contact, for some reason, but just says, “I— I didn’t catch your name?”

Lexa almost laughs, but restrains herself to a barely-contained smile, feeling a weight lift off her that feels like it’s been there for years. “Lexa. It’s Lexa. It’s…it’s really nice to meet you, Clarke.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to writing a companion piece to this one-shot after getting inspired recently. Always love writing in this universe, such a fun AU! Thanks for all the kind feedback.

**Clarke is 35, and 16**

The house is quiet, almost antiseptic in how silent and still it is, and Clarke regrets, as she always does when she arrives in her childhood home, how quickly things went south after her dad died, and then seemed to stay there.

She lets out a sigh at the thought as she sits up, thankful at least that when she is unceremoniously yanked back here, into her childhood bedroom, it’s usually on the soft carpet next to the bed and not, as is the case in other bedrooms, belonging to other girls, in the closet.

The room is empty, and though she immediately feels guilty can’t help but be a bit relieved – the benefit of being years removed has given her some appreciation for just how miserable her teenage self was, and how miserable she, as a result, tried to make everyone around her.

Clarke remembers how it felt perfectly well, and why she acted the way she did, but that doesn’t exactly make it any easier to deal with.

After finding some pajamas that, mercifully, fit her well enough – thank god she’s always been inclined towards the “oversized t-shirts” variety of nightwear – Clarke, after a moment of hesitation, makes for the bed, clearing some of the clothing and general detritus – textbooks, sketchbooks, abandoned notes and handouts from pre-cal and other bits of high school flotsam – before settling in against the headboard. She’d been about to go to sleep back home, after all, Lexa already in bed and making increasingly displeased noises the longer she delayed joining her. She may as well get comfortable while she cools her heels here, especially considering she has absolutely no plans to venture beyond the room to see who else is out there. She’ll just have to hope this trip isn’t overly prolonged, and…make it up to Lexa whenever she returns to her own time. Assuming Lexa is still awake, of course, and not too grumpy at Clarke’s unfortunately timed departure.

But oh well. Nothing she can do at the moment. She clicks on the lamp on the nightstand – noting with a wince from the clock there that it’s her junior year of high school, was a shitshow that was – before grabbing the book she’d spotted half-buried under a pile of clothes by the side of the bed, wrinkling her nose a bit at the dystopic fiction she comes up with, the sort that had been so popular throughout her teen years. Well, it’ll have to do. She, at this age, hadn’t been an overly voracious reader, so any book at all is a pleasant surprise.

She smiles a little when she flips open the cover and sees the post-it stuck there, scrawled with a little note: “The science in this is total bullshit, but it’s still an okay read. I expect you to get through at least the first five chapters before you give up. –Raven.” Clarke snorts. Raven’s brand of tough-love never really changed over the years, and though it may have rubbed teenage Clarke the wrong way on occasion, Clarke knows now that Raven being one of the few people who refused to take any of her shit, even at her worst, was one of the reasons they’d become, and stayed, such good friends.

Clarke’ll have to remind Raven about this, she thinks – despite Raven’s scribbled warning Clarke has no recollection whatsoever of the book – and is about to turn to the first chapter when the bedroom door swings open.

She looks up sharply, her first wild thought that it’s her mother, home early from work. It’s silly and nonsensical – her mom, at this point in their relationship, strove to be at the hospital as much as possible – but apparently being back in her teenage bedroom affects her more than she likes to admit.

It’s not, though – and she can’t say she’s overly delighted by the actual intruder.

The “intruder” is clearly not pleased to see her, either, scowling after a split-second pause in the doorway. “You’re in my spot.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “This was my spot for longer than you’ve been around.”

Her teenaged-self shoots her a dirty look, clearly failing to enjoy her (excellent) time-travel humor. Considering, however, that she’s clutching a steaming container of Cup Noodles and looking generally unkempt in a comically oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt, ratty sweats, and – Clarke recognizes with a pang – one of her dad’s old flannels, the glare fails to inspire much fear. “You’re not funny. And as far as time goes, that is my spot _now_. In the _present_.”

Clarke sighs dramatically but heaves herself to the other side of the bed, saying as she does, “Past, present, future…it’s all kinda relative, you know.”

It’s her younger self’s  – Clarke would be tempted to call her Clarke Jr. if it wouldn’t end with her being promptly kicked out – turn to roll her eyes as she approaches the bed and settles into her – Clarke’s – _their_ – spot. “I hope I’m not always this into faux-philosophy when I get old.” She runs a critical eye down Clarke’s rumpled form. “Emphasis on _old_. What are you, forty?”

Clarke’s mouth drops in outrage. Okay, yes, high school was rough, but god, had she been a _brat_. “I’m thirty-five!”

Her younger self eyes her speculatively, looking none too impressed. “Huh.”

Clarke grinds her teeth. This kid… Her growing irritation abruptly disappears when she notices the faintest hints of a smirk playing on the teen’s lips even as she shoves a forkful of noodles into her mouth. She always _had_ been good at riling up adults. In this case, Clarke supposes adults even includes her. “Satisfied?”

Her younger self just shrugs, looking smug, and after a second Clarke blows out a breath, leaning back against the headboard and closing her eyes, deciding that someone has to be the mature one here, and it may as well be her. In the meantime, she’ll just rest her eyes and try to block out the sounds of obnoxious slurping from the other side of the bed.  

“So how long are you here for?”

…Except she doesn’t know why she ever thought she’d be left in peace. She doesn’t bother opening her eyes as she replies, “You know I don’t have the answer to that.”

“Hmph.”

The silence stretches out again, and just when Clarke thinks it might last her young counterpart pipes up again. “Where are you coming from, anyway?”

This time Clarke opens her eyes, casting the girl a sideways glance. “…Home.”

This answer clearly piques the teen’s interest, and Clarke hastens to follow up before more probing questions can follow. “And that’s all I’m gonna say about that, before you get too interested. You know the rules.”

Her younger self slumps back against the headboard, deflating a little. She _does_ know them – she decided early on that the only way she’s going to retain any semblance of a normal progression through life is if she keeps as much of the current details of her life to herself when visiting the past – but that doesn’t mean she’s not above trying her luck. “You’re no fun.”

“It’s for the best, Clarke.”

“It’s for the best, _Clarke_ ,” the teen mocks, clearly unmoved by this appeal. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one stuck here.”

Clarke bites back her first instinctive response – that she _had_ been stuck here, thank you very much, for the exact amount of time the girl in front of her will be – and instead pauses, really taking the girl in, noting with little surprise the deep circles under her eyes, the air, under her bravado, of sadness that seems to hang over her.

She knows yet another reminder of the vagaries of time travel isn’t going to help here. And because she _knows_ what her younger self is feeling, remembers perfectly well how much the first years after her dad died sucked. His passing had been a shock, totally unexpected, and suffice it to say neither she nor her mother had taken it well. For Clarke her mourning – aside from the sleeplessness and pervading grief – had nastily manifested itself in a sharp uptick in uncontrollable time-travelling episodes, as if the trauma she’d experienced had left her even more unmoored to her place in time than she’d been before.

The episodes were cruelly frequent, ten or twelve a week from what had been her usual four or five, but short, fifteen minutes here and there all over her timeline – Clarke still remembers the general disorientation this constant in-and-out, a whirlwind tour of random moments in her life, had caused her, and made her feel even more adrift.

And that hadn’t even been the worst of it.

She meets her younger self’s eyes. “Did you go back there again?”

Her younger self looks away, suddenly interested in her noodles. Long seconds pass before she answers, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

Clarke feels her eyes fall shut, her heart clenching with dread. A lot of it had been shitty, all in all. But none of it even came close to traveling back to that day, to the hospital, to catching a glimpse of her father, still and unmoving, machines beeping shrilly all around him, before the doctors closed in on him and she was moved bodily to the waiting room to count the minutes until her worst fears were realized.

She remembers it perfectly, can recall it from every angle down to the minute, because she’s visited that day countless times over the years since.

She’s watched as the ambulance screeches up to the emergency entrance, staff running out to meet it. Stood at the nurses’ station as the gurney is rushed past. Even seen herself being escorted into the waiting room by a cadre of nurses.

And it never does really get any easier.

She takes a second to gather herself, seeking to tap into some well of strength within her before looking back at the drawn girl in front of her. “Yeah. Pretty fucking terrible, isn’t?”

The slightly flippant reply is clearly unexpected, her younger self drawing back and blinking at her, and Clarke blows out a breath, feeling tired. Most things she won’t disclose. She’ll follow the rules. But this…Clarke wouldn’t keep it from herself. And it’s not like she hasn’t already experienced it. “It’ll keep happening.”

Her younger self slumps, the response apparently both expected and dreaded. “How…how am I supposed to handle it? Without like…losing my mind.”

Clarke almost laughs. Isn’t _that_ the million-dollar question. “It’ll keep happening,” she repeats. “But not as often. It doesn’t get easier. But…it stops hurting. As much. You sort of…get used to it.” It’s not much comfort, but it’s the truth. And it’s all she’s got.

It’s a cold comfort, Clarke can see, the teen setting aside her noodles as if she’s lost her appetite. Trying to soften the blow, Clarke adds, her voice gentle, “It’s at its worst right now. All the travelling. Give it some time…things will start to even out.”

The girl laughs, the sound bitter and none too cheerful. “Glad I have so much to look forward to.”

“Hey.” Clarke reaches out impulsively, grabbing her younger self’s hand – and ain’t _that_ a trip. “Things are pretty much shit right now. I know that. I _remember_ it. But…it won’t be always like this, okay? You’ll – _we’ll_ – find ways to deal, things’ll change.”

Her younger self looks down for a long moment, her hand limp in Clarke’s grip. After a moment, though, she meets Clarke’s gaze. “You’re pretty bad at pep talks, you know that?”

A surprised laugh escapes her, and she smiles ruefully. “Yeah. I know. I mean it, though.”

“I guess.” They hold there for a moment until the girl break her gaze, sliding her hand out of Clarke’s. Moment over, it seems. Seeming ready to close the subject, she clears her throat, saying awkwardly, “Well…I was gonna watch something. I dunno how much longer you’ll be here but…you can too, if you want.” She gives Clarke a sly look. “I’m sure we can find something appropriately ancient.”

Clarke rolls her eyes but feels herself smile. “Sure.”

As the teen busies herself with extricating her laptop from beneath her hopelessly wadded sheets and queueing up a show on Netflix, Clarke watches her, feeling odd mix of fondness and sympathy. It’s taken a long time for her to make peace with her odd condition, with her unorthodox life, much of it done with Lexa’s help. But meeting Lexa is still years away, and Clarke has a lot to figure out for herself first. This is ground zero of that effort – her painful teen years, where, between the loss of her dad, her fraught relationship with her mom, the frequent and frightening travelling, and the usual bullshit accompanying those years – she has yet to learn to be gentle with herself.

…Honestly, looking back, Clarke mostly just thinks she could’ve used a hug.

Which is why, when her younger self turns to her, mouth opening to ask her something, Clarke surprises them both by leaning forward, wrapping her arms around the girl she was, years ago. The teen stiffens in surprise before, to Clarke’s relief – she’s not sure what the psychological ramifications of being rejected by herself would be, but doesn’t care to find out – returning the embrace, tentatively bringing up her arms. And it’s…nice.

So it’s typical that, just as the warm fuzzies are setting in, she feels the telltale dizziness begin to rise, her limbs weakening almost immediately. This’ll be a swift departure, it seems.

Her younger self knows immediately what’s going on, of course, and pulls back to inspect Clarke’s rapidly paling face. “About that time, huh?”

Clarke manages a nod, and the teen, with surprising gentleness, eases her back against the pillows. They look at each other for a second until the girl speaks, a tad awkwardly. “Well…thanks, or whatever. For the talk.”

“Anytime. And…” She wasn’t going to mention it, but now finds herself compelled, her voice getting softer even as she speaks. “I know things suck with mom right now. Just give that time, too.”

The teen’s face clouds, but she doesn’t argue, just nodding. “While we’re dispensing advice – you need to switch wrinkle creams, Clarke. Whatever you’re using now clearly isn’t working.”

Clarke is flooded with outrage again, of course, but the dizziness crests and pulls her under before she can formulate a reply. The last thing she sees is her younger self, watching her go with a broad smirk, thoroughly pleased with herself.

Kids these days.

 

**

**Lexa is 17, Clarke is 25**

“Checkmate.”

Clarke gapes at the board, unable to believe what she’s seeing. Where did that even come from? She thought she’d been perfectly protected – that she’d had the advantage!

She looks up to see Lexa watching her, expression carefully smoothed out but emanating just the faintest hint of smugness – undetectable to anyone who doesn’t know her as Clarke does. Clarke glares at her, and Lexa looks back at her, utterly calm. They stare each other down, until Clarke narrows her eyes, and Lexa – whose lips have begun to tremble – finally gives up, bursting into laughter, barely managing to get out: “S-sorry, you should just see your face…”

Clarke can’t keep her scowl up in the face of Lexa’s clearly unrepentant mirth, shaking her head ruefully. “Yeah, yeah, glad someone’s enjoying it.”

Lexa manages to regain her poise, saying tactfully, “You’re a great opponent, Clarke. I always enjoy playing you.”

“You enjoy _beating_ me.”

Lexa smirks, just a little. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Clarke snorts, rolling onto her back and staring up at the sky. They’re out in Lexa’s backyard – Clarke is coming from a blustery winter day, and when she’d seen the sun shining from the window in Lexa’s room demanded they decamp to the outdoors. Lexa’s dad is in the last week of his latest deployment, and Indra won’t be by until later this evening, so Lexa could hardly disagree – ten minutes later, they were sprawled out on a blanket under a tree, the chess board between them, Clarke already crowing about her inevitable victory.

(Lexa won’t deny that that made her ultimate triumph just a little sweeter. They’re both too competitive for their own good.)

“When does your dad get back, again?”

“Next Friday.”

“That’s great, not too far away,” Clarke replies, still squinting up at the clouds as she attempts to locate the pack of Oreos they’ve been making their way through, one hand rooting around blindly.

Lexa pushes it into Clarke’s hand, rolling her eyes when Clarke grins at her triumphantly. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Careful, Lex,” Clarke deadpans as she reaches into the pack and withdraws with the last of the cookies. “Don’t want to come off as _too_ excited.”

“I am – no, thank you – excited,” Lexa protests, turning down the outstretched container. “It’s just…I don’t know. He’s gone so much. It’s hard to feel that— Clarke, you’re gonna choke if you keep eating them like that.”

“Please,” Clarke says through a mouthful of Oreos (Lexa winces), “I’ve been eating laying down for years, I’m a pro at—” Whatever she’s a pro at is lost in a spray of cookies (Lexa leans away) as she, evidently, inhales incorrectly and erupts into a coughing fit. Lexa, to her credit, barely lets out a sigh before she’s helping the other girl sit up and clapping her on the back with one hand, taking the opportunity to smoothly liberate her of her remaining Oreos with the other.

When Clarke has finally recovered – draining Lexa’s water bottle in the process – she leans back on her elbows, blowing out a loud breath. “Sheeeeesh. The Oreos betrayed me.” She casts a sideways glance at Lexa, who returns her gaze innocently, very determinedly _not_ smiling, or looking vindicated, or anything else that seems to convey the phrase ‘I told you so,’ but all in a way that suggests it’s due only to the result of concentrated effort. “Not a word.”

Lexa looks wounded. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I could sense it.”

Lexa looks for a moment as if she wants to argue, but then seems to decide against it, shrugging. “As you like.” She punctuates the point with a decisive bite into an Oreo.

Clarke double takes, looking first at the empty container and then to her own hand, belatedly realizing it’s empty. “Hey!” She points at finger at Lexa accusingly, eyes narrowed. “ _Sneaky_.”

Lexa preens, enjoying what she clearly takes as a compliment. “You didn’t seem to want them.”

“I was choking!”

“And I helped you!”

“You also _stole_ from me.”

“I rarely do anything for one reason, Clarke.”

At this, Clarke groans aloud. “No. Veto. Permanent moratorium on the dramatic one-liners, you weirdo.”

They lock stares for a charged moment before Lexa gives in, no longer attempting to mask the smug satisfaction fairly radiating from her as she eats the other Oreo. “I’ll take your veto under consideration.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “That’s not how it works, Lex.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the one who actually belongs to this time period – you’re the visitor who can’t even give prior notice of when you’re gonna stop by. So,” Lexa concludes, “I get home-court advantage.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Clarke asks, smiling despite herself.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

“Ugh,” Clarke says, rolling onto her stomach so that she can idly examine the chess board and try to suss out where she went wrong. “You and your rules. Wish I could say you grow out of your respect for the law, but, well…”

She trails off, and, looking at the board as she is, misses the flash of surprise and other, more complex emotions, that flits across Lexa’s face. When the silence goes on for a beat too long, though, she looks up. “What?”

Lexa looks at her for a long moment, clearly deciding what to say, before finally settling on: “So…you know me when I’m older?” There’s an odd mix of hope and tension in her voice, especially when she says ‘older.’

Clarke frowns at her confusedly before running the last thing she said through her head, and then wants to slap herself. Dammit. That’s precisely the type of thing she tries to avoid saying, or even insinuating – for all her teasing of Lexa, Clarke has her own rules, and she tries to stick to them. For a _reason_. She’s perfectly aware that this odd in-and-out through Lexa’s life has already hopelessly altered it, but she’s determined to do what she can to mitigate the effects – particularly when it comes to Lexa’s future.

Which is why offhand comments about Lexa’s future personality, or Clarke’s knowledge of it, are not helpful.

It’s her own fault. She got too comfortable, too at ease with this Lexa, their banter eerily like the same silly back-and-forth she has with her own. They’re the same person, of course, so that’s hardly surprising – but Clarke usually keeps some amount of her guard up, to weigh her replies to whichever Lexa she’s visiting and to always remain conscious of the distance between them and _her_ Lexa, waiting for her back in her present. Especially since they’re all, without fail, younger than her. (A fact that endlessly amuses Lexa when Clarke finally meets her in their own, shared timeline – after years of visits by an elder, seemingly wise and mature Clarke, Lexa is actually a year _older_ than the time-traveler.)

And that’s all very well, but not particularly helpful _now_ , with Lexa tensely waiting for a reply.

Clarke sneaks a look at her before letting out a sigh, rubbing her eyes. “Lexa…”

“Come on, Clarke, you can’t just say that and then drop it!” Lexa argues, surprisingly vehement. “I— I never push you that hard, don’t argue about your rules, and— and you have to give me _something_.”

“Lexa, does it really matter? It won’t change anything, won’t alter your life _now_ in any meaningful way—”

“It will, Clarke,” Lexa interrupts, her eyes intense and fixed on her. “It means something to _me_. I just— I need to know.”

Clarke blinks, honestly a bit taken aback. Where is this wellspring of emotion, of intensity coming from? Okay, she knows she hasn’t given Lexa much to go on. But she didn’t think it had affected the girl like _this_. “Hey.” She waits until the girl looks at her. “Is everything okay? I know you have questions, questions I don’t really answer how you’d like. But I’ve never seen you this…upset about it.”

Lexa doesn’t answer immediately, evidently trying to decide how to answer. When she does, her voice is softer, and hesitant. “It’s just…” She heaves a sigh. “I’m leaving for college soon, Clarke. I won’t be here anymore. And I don’t even really know if it’s _me_ you’re visiting, or just something about my house that makes you keep dropping out of thin air into my closet. I know you’re older than me, that I’m just this— this kid you visit, and that you don’t think of me that way…but you’ve been part of my life since I was eleven. You’re more of a constant than my _dad_ , Clarke.” She lets out a slightly bitter laugh. “And the thought that you might just disappear one day, and I’ll never see you again or actually meet the real you out there, wherever you are, is just really…upsetting.” She pauses, looking down at her hands. “When I first met you, you told me that we’re friends in the future. Well, that was years ago, and you’re my best friend _now_ , Clarke. And I just…I need to know.”

Lexa looks away as she finishes, as if unable to wait and watch Clarke’s reaction.

Clarke stares at her, aware that her mouth is hanging slightly open. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t _that_. Her heart aches for the loneliness, the vulnerability inherent in Lexa’s words, all too aware of how difficult all that must’ve been for Lexa to confess. For all her strengths, she’s never been good at asking for things, or saying what she wants. And there is some guilt, too. Lexa is right that Clarke told her, when they first met, that they knew each other in the future, that they’re friends. In the years since, though, she’s downplayed those words – she can’t blame Lexa for wondering what they meant, if Clarke meant friends _now_ or was just trying to mollify her pre-teen wrath.

But at this moment, she honestly doesn’t know what _to_ say. And yet…Lexa is clearly distressed, and maybe she does have a point. Clarke knows that she’s an important part of Lexa’s life, has played a vital role of confidante and buddy when it felt like Lexa didn’t have many others – her own Lexa has said as much. Would she regret this? Would other Clarkes, her older self, disapprove?

Clarke doesn’t know. But it also doesn’t really matter. At the end of the day, she can only be herself, and do what she thinks is right at that moment in time. “You’re right.”

Lexa’s head snaps up, her eyes wide in utter surprise, and Clarke feels guilty all over again – it is her actions that have conditioned Lexa to expect yet another denial, another refusal. “What?”

Clarke nods, feeling a wry smile cross her face. For all her steadfast rejections, stubborn clinging to her rules, it is _tiring_ , and she can admit that just telling Lexa what she wants to know, for once, is wonderfully liberating. “You’re right. I do know you, in the future. The actual me.”

Lexa just stares at her, looking somewhat dumbstruck. Clarke waits.

And then. Lexa _beams_ , the smile spreading across her face, wide and utterly guileless – perfectly happy – making it all immediately, completely worth it.

When the girl dives across the chessboard, pawns and knights and bishops going flying, and tackles Clarke in a bear hug, well – it’s just that much better.

 

**

**Lexa is 29, Clarke is 28, and 19**

The movie is Clarke’s idea. The end of October is nearing, and she’s in full Halloween mode, having planned out their costumes with almost alarming detail weeks ago – it’s one of the few occasions in the year Lexa sees her get this intense and type-A, almost reminding Lexa of, well, _herself_ , and by now Lexa has learned to just nod mutely go along with it – even if she herself has never quite understood what all the fuss is about.

And so Saturday night finds them huddled on the sofa in their darkened den, the only light source aside from the TV the light in the bathroom, the door ajar (Lexa is _not_ scared, thank you very much, it just makes sense to have some light if they have to get up or need to find the snacks or their phone or – Clarke, can we just keep this light on?). Lexa leans closer into Clarke, drawing the blanket up to her chin, as Jack Torrance stalks his wife throughout the Overlook Hotel, axe in hand. She’s vaguely aware that she’s digging her nails into Clarke’s thigh in a way that’s probably painful, but she’s completely transfixed with fear at the moment and not entirely in control of her extremities. Considering the unblinking tension with which Clarke is watching the screen, she’s not much better off. Serves her right, Lexa thinks with some ungraciousness. _She’s_ the one who wanted to watch _The Shining_.

Jack swaggers closer and closer to the bathroom, where his wife cowers within. He pauses, considers the locked door, and then raises his axe to break it down.

Just as he brings it down into the wood – Clarke and Lexa watching breathlessly – the door to the coat closet near the TV bursts open.

Clarke screams. Lexa screams. Wendy Torrance, on the TV screen, screams. It’s a lot.

They only manage to _stop_ screaming when, from the depths of the closet, appears a very confused, rapidly blinking, and completely naked Clarke, who stops just outside the closet to stare at them, possibly wondering why they’re clutching at each other so desperately, Lexa practically in Clarke’s lap.

The three of them gape at each other, Jack’s insane chopping away at the bathroom door temporarily forgotten. Finally, time-traveling Clarke opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t get too far, since no sooner does she is she clapping a hand over her mouth and running straight to the only source of light in the apartment – the bathroom.

The sounds of retching emanating immediately after finally spur them from their shock, Lexa clambering off Clarke and locating the remote to pause the damn movie while Clarke goes to check on her counterpart, who’s clearly had better nights.

Some minutes later, lights on and movie paused and then, after a moment of consideration, firmly turned off, Lexa tentatively pads to the bathroom to see how Clarke and her sicker self are doing, fleetingly grateful she’d won the bathroom-light-on debate after all.

No sooner does she peek her head through the entry is she wincing, nose wrinkling involuntarily. No wonder time-traveling Clarke isn’t doing so well; it smells like a _distillery_ in here, absolutely reeking of stale beer and possibly whiskey, and between that and the smell of old cigarettes and vomit Lexa has to withdraw after a few seconds, though she pauses long enough to confirm their visitor has mostly recovered – even if she’s still kneeling in front of the toilet and letting out pathetic sounding groans as Clarke pats her on the back.

The scene and smells are enough to piece together where and when this Clarke is coming from, though; under the bright bathroom lights Lexa can tell that the visiting Clarke is young, younger than Lexa’s ever seen her, likely college-aged – the pink tips of her hair help support that suspicion. She’s also clearly _blitzed_ , in a way that Lexa has never known her Clarke to get – tipsy, sure, but Clarke is far too wary of the unfortunate effects of mixing alcohol and time-travelling to ever let it go too far.

So. College Clarke, totally wasted. Well, looks like Lexa’s going to meet this Party Girl Griffin she’s heard so much about from Raven and others, after all.

After inquiring through the door if either Clarke needs anything, and confirming neither does, she retreats to the sofa, trying not to let her curiosity get the best of her as she waits. Her eyebrows raise a bit when she hears the shower turn on, and then raise even more when corresponding squawks of protest rise up, audible even over the running water.

Finally, after minutes of this, the shower clicks off, and Lexa can hear her girlfriend switching between coaxing and scolding as she apparently tries to wrangle her much drunker self out of the shower and into a towel.

Lexa can just about no longer keep a lid on her rising interest when the bathroom door finally swings open, Clarke emerging first – shooting Lexa a long-suffering look as she does – and their visitor right behind.

College Clarke – as Lexa has started referring to her in her head – is looking somewhat less bedraggled than she previously did, swaddled in Clarke’s bathrobe and washed hair somewhat under control. She also looks a bit petulant, no doubt outraged at what she’s been put through since arriving here, and Lexa has to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the way she glares at Clarke even as Lexa’s girlfriend guides her to the sofa.

Clarke sends her another resigned stare before gesturing to her younger self. “Sit.”

It’s clear that college Clarke has zero intention of doing so, at least until she herself is good and ready. Instead, she folds her arms and glowers suspiciously at Lexa. “Who are _you_?”

Lexa has to school her face again. This kid – because really, that’s what she is – is clearly still impressively drunk, shower or no shower, as her current lack of volume control is illustrating, and this whole surreal scene is only getting more amusing. “Hi, Clarke. I’m Lexa.”

This answer does not appear to satisfy, and the girl just rolls her eyes. “But who _are_ you?”

“I’m, uh—” Lexa glances at her girlfriend, in time to see Clarke’s frantic throat-slashing gesticulations. Oookay, looks like they’re maintaining a need-to-know-only policy, and apparently their relationship does not need to be known. “—Clarke’s – that is, _your_ – friend. In the future.”

The time-traveler squints at her, as if weighing Lexa’s words, before abruptly shrugging. “Well, whatever. I’m gonna…I’m gonna sit down now.” And she does, dropping inelegantly onto the couch with an ‘oomph’ and getting herself comfortable. Once she’s settled, she casts a befuddlingly smug look at Clarke. “You thought your reverse chemistry was gonna work, huh?”

Clarke gapes at her. “Do you mean reverse _psychology_? And I _told_ you to—” She stops short, exhaling through her nose. “You know what, never mind.”

This is enough to confirm college Clarke’s supposed victory, and she settles further into the sofa with a self-satisfied, “That’s what I thought.”

Lexa is carefully avoiding eye contact with either of them. It is all she can do to smother her smile into her hand; one look at her girlfriend and she’ll be crying laughing on the carpet. Clarke, having sent a beseeching look upwards, settles next to her, and from the way she pinches Lexa’s side Lexa is clearly failing to conceal her thoughts.

Their visitor, for her part, isn’t done with Lexa either, it seems. She stares unabashedly at Lexa, eyeing her up and down in a way that makes Lexa somewhat uncomfortable, regardless of the fact that this is literally her girlfriend, just a few years younger and a whole lot drunker. After a full minute of this, Lexa growing wholly ill at ease, the younger Clarke announces, far too loudly and if she’s just come to an incredibly important discovery: “You know, you’re pretty hot.”

This proves to be too much. Lexa is only human, after all, and she can no more contain this laugh than keep Clarke from time-traveling. She feels more than sees her Clarke behind her heave an enormous, aggrieved sigh as she gives up, bursts of laughter escaping from under her hands. This is all just too surreal. She’s accustomed to dealing with the Clarke of their shared timeline, where Clarke is just a year younger than her, or, through her life, with Clarkes far older.

Nothing’s prepared her for this – this silly, utterly serious college girl with her hair dyed pink. Frankly, it’s a delight.

College Clarke seems to interpret Lexa’s snorted laughter as a denial of her compliment (?), and opts to double down as some sort of odd reassurance. “No, seriously. You’re, like, a total smokeshow. Your eyes, and your hair, and your, like, _face_ — “

“Oh my god, I think she gets it,” Clarke finally cuts in, desperate to regain some dignity while Lexa nearly cracks a rib trying to keep even some of her hysterical laughter contained.

This is the wrong thing to say. The younger Clarke turns on her counterpart. “Oh yeah? Well, I don’t see _you_ making a move, which is totally pathetic, because, again, _smokeshow_.” She points a thumb at Lexa as she says it, as if they need the reminder.

Lexa hides a smile as Clarke squeezes the bridge of her nose; their visitor watches, visibly unimpressed. “Okay, I think that’s enough advice from you for one night.”

The college student shrugs dramatically, letting out a comically exaggerated harrumph of disapproval as she slumps further into the sofa cushions, arms crossed. “Whatever. Why is every older version of me so, so…” She loses the plot for a second, distracted by the fuzziness of her bathrobe, before scowling anew at Clarke. “So fuckin’ _lame_?”

Clarke snorts, equally unimpressed by her younger self’s ill-temper. “Probably because you consider anything not involving getting blackout drunk and then making even more dumbass decisions to be lame, currently.”

This is clearly too many words for the inebriated younger Clarke, and Lexa watches with some interest as enough of their meaning eventually permeates through to make the girl scowl even more, affronted. “’M not a dumbass, shipdit – ditship – dipshit.”  

“Sick burn, Clarke,” Clarke replies, her voice dry. “Look, you’re not gonna remember any of this anyway, so can you just cool it? We were having a perfectly nice night before you showed up.”

This is a mild editing of reality – Lexa doesn’t know if she’d call her all-out terror _nice_ – but considering the circumstances she’ll will let it slide. The younger Clarke, for her part, seems to consider the request, and then, to both of their relief, acquiesces, fight leaving her in a long exhalation. “Yeah, whatever. Lames gonna lame.”

(Her sudden compliance may have something to do with the fact that she has, for the last few minutes, slowly been listing to the side, and is now almost completely horizontal.) 

Clarke sighs and rises, going over to where the girl is sort of, but not fully laying down, and – after forcing her into draining a glass of water – coaxes her into laying fully flush against the cushions; Lexa notices that even as her movements stay brisk there is a certain gentleness to the way she handles her younger self.

It’s not the first time Lexa’s seen a Clarke younger than her Clarke, but definitely the first for one like this, so aggressive and feisty and weirdly vulnerable and also _drunk_. It makes her feel oddly kindly towards the defensive, defiant, hurt-but-proud girl she knows Clarke was, and still can be, and she has the urge to wrap the girl in her arms and shield her from the cruel capriciousness of the world. 

This urge dims, somewhat, to be replaced with amusement when the girl in question, even as Clarke continues her ministrations above her, makes direct eye contact with Lexa and mouths “call me,” raising a hand mimicking a phone to an ear – but not completely.

When college Clarke has finally passed out on the sofa, mouth open and definitely snoring, Lexa and Clarke decamp to the kitchen, so as to not risk waking her and also so that Clarke can open a much-needed beer, and after they both recover from their near-silent giggling – because seriously _, what are their lives_ – Clarke speaks up, shaking her head. “God. Sorry, Lex. For, well. Me, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Lexa protests. “That was amazing. I’m kind of sad I didn’t know you in college, now.”

Clarke grimaces. “Don’t be. As Exhibit A out there in the den illustrates, I was kind of a mess at the time. If you haven’t noticed, not exactly the poster child for healthy coping over here. Took me a while to get my shit together, and I spent most of my first two years getting plastered.”

Lexa doesn’t need to inquire further – she knows all about the devastating effect the death of Clarke’s father and all its fallout had on Clarke – and just nods. “Well, even so. Although…I’m kind of surprised you let yourself get that drunk. What with the time-traveling, and all.”

“Well. Making good decisions wasn’t really high on my list at that point.” Clarke tilts her head thoughtfully. “Although, now that I think about it, I also don’t think I’d quite made the connection between the two at that point. It was only after I’d chilled out a little that I put two and two together.”

“Oh, gotcha. Still, shitfaced or not, you were still pretty—”

There’s a clatter in the den, and they both jump before heading back out to investigate – to find an empty bathrobe on the sofa, the glass the younger Clarke had wedged next to her lazily rolling on the floor. She’s left, then.

Lexa finds herself a bit sad at the departure. She knew it was going to happen, of course, but just imagining the girl being transported back to her own time, to a time and place where she is clearly not happy or at peace, makes her heart ache. She looks to see Clarke staring at the robe, and knows her thoughts must be running in similar directions.

There’s nothing to do that can alleviate that pain, but she wraps her arms around her just the same, resting her head on Clarke’s shoulder, and after a moment Clarke leans into her, returning the embrace. “It’s okay,” Clarke says after a moment. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

Lexa isn’t entirely sure of that saying, to be honest, but just smiles. Clarke steps away, clearly seeking to move past it all, and grabs the remote, glancing at her. “So…I think I’m kinda done with _The Shining_ , actually. Wanna watch _The Office_?”

 Lexa lets out a sigh of heartfelt relief. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

**

**Clarke is 30, and 8**

It’s a beautiful day – sun out, mid-70s, not a cloud in the sky. Really, completely flawless, the kind of day that would make Ferris Bueller, or, probably, Anya cut class. She arrived in someone’s mercifully empty backyard, and in short order managed to liberate a sundress off a clothesline that isn’t too far off her size and, in a stroke of luck, some flip flops to boot. As time-travelling episodes go, this one isn’t going too bad, and she’s in fine spirits as she continues her stroll through the park she stumbled upon a few blocks from where she showed up.

She’s not sure where she is, exactly, but parts of the park seem…familiar, almost, tugging some distant memory in an out-of-reach part of her mind. Clarke doesn’t _think_ she’s been here before, but…who knows?

It must be a weekend, because the park is fairly busy, filled with joggers, people walking their dogs, families spread out over the grass enjoying picnics and the day as their kids run underfoot.

Clarke is walking on, trying to remember if and when she’s been here, when a sudden shout of warning startles her and she turns sharply – to see a soccer ball flying at her head. She ducks just in time, and then, against her own nature, manages to put on a burst of speed to catch up with and collect the ball.

She turns, smiling wryly, ready to playfully chide whichever child is surely responsible for her near-concussion, and freezes, feeling the blood drain from her face.

Her dad, young and glowing with health and happiness and so, _so_ beautiful, pauses uncertainly, no doubt taken aback at however her face must look. “Um, sorry about that!” He chuckles, pointing a thumb behind him. “My daughter went a little crazy with her kick.”

Clarke mutely follows his finger to see – her heart clenches – a little blonde girl standing some thirty feet away, watching the two of them uncertainly. Her eyes, Clarke knows, are exactly like her father’s.

When the silence stretches on too long – her dad looking more and more confused – she beats off the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her with effort, shaking her head and forcing a patently false smile. “Of course! Don’t worry about it!”

She takes a few steps to him, practically feeling her heart break in her chest, and offers the ball. Her dad slowly moves to accept it, his eyes not moving from her face, and Clarke tries not to react when their fingers brush for a split second as he takes the ball. “Thank you. Um…” He hesitates. “Sorry, are you okay?”

Clarke lets out a watery laugh, nodding quickly. “Yes, yes, totally. Have a great day. Enjoy this time with your— your daughter.”

It’s odd phrasing, she knows, but can’t not say it, and watches as his brows furrow slightly in confusion. She knows she should leave, turn and walk away before this gets any more complicated, but she’s utterly rooted to the spot, soaking in the sight of him. His brows furrow all the more when they really focus and _look_ at her eyes, identical to his own. “Hey, wait, do I know—”

“Take care!” Clarke turns away, walking as quickly as she can without actually running. The tears that have been building finally overflow and she makes no attempt to wipe them away as she flees, agonizing grief – made all the worse by its unexpectedness – overwhelming her. She feels her father’s eyes on her until she’s out of sight.

Time-traveling isn’t always terrible. It can be dangerous, exhilarating, boring, and sometimes even kind of fun. But moments like these – when Clarke is forced to have brushes with those long gone, literal reunions with the dead – are their own kind of agonizing cruelty and odd blessing all mixed in one.

This is not the first time she’s visited a time and place with her dad present, and not in a hospital, either. It _is_ the first time he’s seen her, _talked_ to her, and – it’s too much. She loves him so much, _misses_ him so much, emotions that no amount of time or distance will ever erase.

That’s not the only reason she had to leave. Her dad died before her condition manifested, before her life changed irrevocably. There’s no explanation for her presence, neither to him _or_ her younger self. Clarke wants herself to have her innocence while she still can.

And so she runs, wanting nothing more than to just disappear, then be here, so close, and yet so incredibly far from the beloved ghosts of her past.

She resolves never to return to this park again.

 

**

**Lexa is 24, Clarke is 23**

“Wait, _what_?”

Lexa winces.

“ _Years_?!”

A reluctant nod.

Clarke stands stock-still, looking a little shaken.

After a moment, Lexa chuckles, still wincing. “Too much?”

“No, no,” Clarke says, then hesitates. “Okay…just a little.”

Lexa nods sympathetically. “Sorry. I keep forgetting I’ve had years to get used to the idea. It’s hard to remember you’ve only known me for a few weeks.”

Clarke just nods weakly, and Lexa wants to smack herself – since the moment Clarke asked her out she’s been agonizing over how to tell her, what to tell her, all with the determination to not overwhelm her. Clearly, she’s missed the mark. By a lot.

But dammit, what else was she supposed to do? It’s been increasingly impossible, since that day they met at the bar and hung out since, to pretend that they’re brand new acquaintances, slowly becoming friends, that Lexa doesn’t already know Clarke’s hobbies and favorite foods and music and TV shows and practically everything else. This is _Clarke_ , Lexa’s best friend, her confidante, the girl she’s loved since she was sixteen.

So when Clarke did finally ask her out, after days of dancing around it, Lexa was delighted but terrified. Dinner went well, and when Lexa proposed they go for a walk after, and Clarke had easily agreed, that terror had only grown.

It’s just, there are so many bombshells to drop. That Lexa knows about Clarke’s condition – why _else_ would she be so easygoing about Clarke’s semifrequent flaking on hanging out, about her evasiveness and excuses for going missing that, even if Lexa didn’t know the truth, would seem ridiculously implausible. That, more than knowing, Lexa is the single most frequently visited person Clarke visits besides Clarke herself, and that those visits will start rather soon.

It’s this last point that is – besides Lexa’s own selfish desire for Clarke to know the truth – really driving Lexa’s urgency. Clarke had made it clear that she started visiting Lexa a few short months after meeting her, and Lexa is determined that Clarke know the whole story before they begin.

…So she may have had a bit of word vomit, getting all this out to Clarke as they walked, and with debatable amounts of coherence. She watches now, with rising nerves, as Clarke looks out the ground, clearly shell-shocked as she tries to come to terms with the massive amount of information Lexa just dumped on her. When the silence stretches on too long Lexa can take it no longer. “I’m sorry, Clarke, I know that was a lot – too much – but I had to tell you. These weeks have been killing me, being so close to you and pretending not to know you when I’ve known you my whole life. I, just, please don’t push me away, I know it’s wrong to pressure you but I’ve been waiting so long and—”

Her babble is cut off when Clarke – who stopped examining the ground about halfway into Lexa’s panicked speech – leans forward, pressing her lips to Lexa’s. The kiss is brief and chaste, Lexa too shocked to really even react, but it serves its purpose, and Clarke pulls away after a few seconds, smiling a bit when she sees Lexa’s face. “Lexa. Breathe.”

Lexa breathes.

“Look, it’s okay. Obviously it _is_ a lot, and I have questions – like, numerous – but honestly…” Her smile turns a bit self-effacing. “It’s also kind of a relief. The bullshit excuses I have to constantly churn up when I meet someone new are the worst part.”

Lexa stares at her before bursting into shocked, relieved laughter, Clarke grinning at her. “Oh god…I wasn’t going to say anything…but Clarke, they’re _so_ bad.”

Clarke shrugs, completely unbothered. “You learn to stop caring so much about it after a few years.” Growing serious, she takes Lexa’s hand. “Also…it feels kind of weird to say this, but…I’m almost not surprised. I can’t explain it, but a part of me feels like I’ve known you for years, not weeks.”

Lexa beams. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Clarke looks down at their joined hands before meeting Lexa’s eyes, smiling softly. “And, you know…if it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was y—oomph.”

The rest of word is bitten off, but considering that Lexa has taken Clarke’s face between her hands and is soundly kissing her, Clarke thinks she’s gotten the gist.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and happy Thanksgiving! About to go eat myself into a food-induced coma.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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